please forgive me (i can't forgive you now)
by shineyma
Summary: Five ways Jemma Simmons found out her parents were HYDRA (and one she didn't).
1. i'm still so far from home

A/N: First of all, title comes from "Remember Everything" by Five Finger Death Punch. Ridiculous name, excellent music.

Second, this was inspired by a prompt from anonymous, who said: "I loved your Simmons parents are hydra fic, and I though I prompt would be that maybe Jemma doesn't know her parents are hydra and meets them when in the field, then they're on opposite sides." This is a very loose interpretation of the prompt, and the rest of this collection will be even looser, but I hope nonnie enjoys, anyway!

Third, this particular chapter doesn't have much in the way of Jemma/Ward, but future chapters will have more. So it gets the tag.

Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

* * *

Between getting caught in the Hub, _fleeing_ the Hub, finding Providence, going to Portland, fleeing _Providence_, and—well—everything _else_ that happens in the immediate wake of SHIELD's fall, Jemma doesn't think much of the fact that she hasn't been able to reach her parents directly.

Oh, she's worried, of course—how could she _not_ be?—but she received a reassuring _We're fine and safe_ text from her mum the day after HYDRA came out of the shadows and several voicemails since, and that's enough for the moment. As long as her parents are alive, anything else can wait.

_Anything_ _else_, in this case, is likely her mother taking over SHIELD.

"It's not that I don't appreciate Director Fury's faith in me," Coulson tells her, somewhat apologetically, on their third day at the Playground. "It's just that I've been Director for less than a week and I've already had to triple my usual dosage of aspirin. Also your mother outranks me."

"I understand, Director," Jemma assures him. She's only half-listening, absorbed as she is in the results of Fitz's latest tests (luckily, one of the doctors Fury left behind is a neurologist, so she's not been forced to treat him herself, but that doesn't mean she's not keeping up with his progress). "I know how uncomfortable it can be to find oneself thrust into a position for which one has insufficient training."

Coulson winces.

"However," she continues, setting the results aside (no change yet; she's trying not to worry, as it's only been three days, but she's not having much success). "You may hold the position for a while, yet. I've been attempting to ring both of my parents on a semi-regular basis, and so far all I've managed to reach is their voicemails. Likewise, I've received several voicemails from _them_—we just can't seem to connect."

"Phone tag," he muses. "The bane of cell-phone users everywhere." He rubs his chin. "Any word on where they are? Are they in contact with any other SHIELD agents?"

"No and yes," she says. "My dad indicated that they've gathered a fairly respectable force, but apparently my mum is of the opinion that their location shouldn't be shared over the phone."

"Probably wise," he agrees, somewhat reluctantly.

She can't blame him, really, although doubtless their reasons for wanting her parents here are entirely different. _Coulson_ would like to hand the reins of SHIELD over to her mother—a Level Nine former specialist who transferred into field command in the wake of Jemma's birth—and would probably be more comfortable if the lab were under the command of Jemma's father—a Level Seven exobiologist—rather than Jemma herself (as she is, admittedly, fairly scatterbrained at the moment).

Whereas Jemma could just really use a hug.

"As such, I haven't shared our location, either," she says, putting wistful thoughts aside. "We'll just have to wait until things settle down and we can meet in person."

"Fair enough," Coulson says. "Let me know as soon as you set up a meet."

"Yes, sir," she says.

It seems like the point at which their conversation should end, but Coulson lingers on the other side of Fitz's bed, frowning at the ventilator.

"Was there…something else, sir?" she asks after a moment.

"Yeah," he says, and clears his throat uncomfortably. "Have you…told your parents about…?"

"About Fitz?" she offers, although she has the unfortunate suspicion that that's not actually what he's asking. "Sort of. My mum asked after him in the voicemail she left the other day. I told her he was injured, but nothing specific."

"And, uh," he clears his throat again. "Ward?"

Yes, she was afraid that was where he was taking that. She busies herself with straightening Fitz's blankets, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. Coulson waits patiently.

"No," she says, once she's certain her voice won't waver. "I thought that was news best shared in person."

Her parents love Grant—Ward. Of all the men she's ever dated, he's the only one to receive their approval. They were so pleased when he proposed.

They _trusted_ him.

She trusted him, too, of course, and her own feelings on the—the _situation_—are not to be dismissed. But somehow it hurts her more to consider how her parents will react than to think of her own feelings. They trusted him to protect her. She knows the only reason that she and Grant were assigned to the same field team—the only reason she was assigned to a field team at all—was her mum's influence. She pulled strings and overrode protocol, all for the sake of having someone she trusted on the team to watch Jemma's back.

What will she do when she learns that Grant—_Ward_—is a traitor? That he not only failed to protect Jemma, but actively attempted to kill her?

And she doesn't even want to _think_ of what her father—her father who not only gave his blessing to their plans to marry, but actually _hugged_ Grant and called him _son_ when they told him—will say.

It's not likely to be pleasant. And she's shed enough tears over Gr—_him _without adding her parents' reactions to her own.

"Fair enough," Coulson says again. He hesitates, and for a moment she's afraid he's going to attempt to offer comfort again (his efforts thus far have been, to put it simply, _awkward_). Then he shakes his head and leaves.

"You hear that? You need to wake up soon," she tells Fitz as the door closes. She's careful to keep her tone light. "Imagine what my mum will say if she arrives to find you lazing about."

As usual, there's no response.

x

Two days later, Jemma is called from Fitz's bedside to go into the field. There's been a sighting of one of the dangerous artifacts HYDRA stole from the Fridge, and as the closest thing to an expert on alien technology that the Playground has, it falls to her to accompany the team out to retrieve it.

Of course, the _team_ is greatly changed these days. May is sticking close to Coulson, for reasons neither is sharing, and though Skye has come a long way from the hacker Coulson forcibly recruited last year, she's not really at a level where anyone (Skye included) is comfortable sending her out as Jemma's sole protection.

So Jemma is accompanied by Skye, Trip, and one Isabelle Hartley.

It's…awkward.

After everything they've been through, she and Skye are something akin to sisters, so Jemma is always happy to spend time with her. And as legacies—albeit of two entirely different kinds—she and Trip have known one another since they were children, so she doesn't mind his presence, either.

Hartley, however…

In the few days they've known each other, Hartley has never been anything but polite to Jemma. But though neither one of them has mentioned it, Jemma is uncomfortably aware that Hartley was in a relationship with Victoria Hand.

A relationship that was ended abruptly when Jemma's fiancé _killed_ Hand.

Even _looking_ at Hartley is enough to make her feel horribly guilty. Coulson's been talking about sending her undercover, and perhaps it's selfish of Jemma, but she very sincerely hopes that Hartley agrees. She's been struggling enough with her guilt and the constant sick feeling in the pit of her stomach without the walking reminder of _exactly_ whose ring she used to wear.

It's hardly Hartley's fault, but…still.

Luckily, it's not as bad as she's expecting it to be. There's no space for awkwardness on the drive to the location. Trip and Skye are in the midst of a truly ridiculous knock-knock joke competition, and it keeps everyone sufficiently distracted. They're all much too busy laughing (or, more frequently, groaning) for awkward silences or tension.

And once they reach the location—a warehouse some 40 kilometers from the Playground—Jemma's much more concerned with doing her job than with Hartley.

The artifact they've come to retrieve is an 0-8-4 that was originally found in the Congo fifteen years ago. The sighting was called in by Lorenzo Santoro, one of the scouts Coulson's had out searching since the moment they established themselves at the Playground, and he's waiting outside the warehouse looking anxious.

"No one's told me whether this thing is dangerous," he says, as soon as they've exchanged greetings. "I don't know what to do. Should we clear the area or stage a gas leak or what?"

"That won't be necessary," Jemma promises, giving him her best reassuring smile. (It might not be very good; her mind is still back at the Playground, with Fitz.) "I've familiarized myself with the file. As long as the 0-8-4 remains inactive, no one is at risk."

"Good," he says, uneasily. "That's…good."

"Why don't you do a sweep of the perimeter?" Hartley suggests, after an awkward pause. "We'll take care of the 0-8-4."

"Right," he agrees, visibly relieved by the suggestion. "I'll do that."

He's halfway around the building before Trip even gets the door open, and there's a thoughtful silence. Trip lets the door swing shut.

"Is it just me or is that guy way too edgy?" Skye asks finally.

"Definitely not just you," Trip says. He looks to Hartley. "What do you think?"

She drums her fingers on her gun, still holstered at her waist, then looks to Jemma. "You said this thing isn't dangerous while it's inactive. What are the chances it gets activated in the next, oh, fifteen minutes?"

"I can't rule it out entirely, of course," she cautions. "But it's highly unlikely. According to the file, the 0-8-4 was activated by instances of extreme heat."

Which was a problem in the Congo, but is much less of a risk in New England during April.

"Right," Hartley says. She glances after Santoro, then jerks her head in the direction of the SUV they came in. "Let's clear out. I want to see what he does if we're not here when he gets back." She raises an eyebrow at Skye. "You got anything that can help with that?"

Skye starts to open her bag, then stops. "Simmons, did you bring the DWARFs?"

"Ooh, good thinking, Skye!" she commends, and hurries to the SUV. She suppresses a completely ridiculous pang as she opens the case containing the DWARFs. They're just as much hers as they are Fitz's; there's no reason to get emotional.

Once Sneezy, Dopey, and Sleepy have been settled at various points around the entrance to the warehouse and it's been determined that they're not visible from the ground, the four of them pile into the SUV and leave.

The DWARFs _do_ have a limited range, though, so they don't go far. Hartley pulls into a car park a few streets away and turns the SUV off, and Jemma gets the display screen arranged so all four of them can view the feed from the DWARFs.

Then they settle in to wait.

x

It's only perhaps five minutes before Santoro returns to the front of the warehouse. The DWARFs aren't in a position to catch him rounding the corner, but they certainly capture him sprinting to the door. He skids to a stop where the SUV was parked when he left, turns in a circle, and swears, fumbling in his pocket.

He draws out a mobile at the exact same moment that three SUVs drive up, and even through the (admittedly somewhat dodgy) feed from the DWARFs, the way he pales is very, very noticeable.

Skye frowns. "Is that—?"

"HYDRA," Hartley says, as men in jackets with distinctly familiar logos exit the first two SUVs. "Damn it."

"Good call on clearing out," Trip says, face grim. "You think that 0-8-4 is even in there?"

"If it is, it's likely only because they put it there," Jemma says, scowling at the screen. She's grateful for Hartley's call; she's beyond sick of HYDRA. "Do you—"

The doors of the third SUV open, and Jemma's voice dies in her throat as two very familiar people emerge from the back seat. For a moment, she feels strangely distant, as though watching from very far away—as though she's in the audience at a film, watching herself watch the feed.

"Simmons?" Skye asks, worried. "What is it?" She pokes her. "You just went super pale."

She has the oddly detached thought that she's finally reached her limit, because this doesn't even hurt. It seems she's run out of anger and betrayal, having used them all up on her traitor of a fiancé. Instead, all she feels, watching her parents emerge from a HYDRA vehicle wearing HYDRA insignia and surrounded by HYDRA agents, is a vague ache in her chest.

"_Jemma_," Skye says, and shakes her shoulder. "What—"

"Those are her parents," Trip says for her, apparently realizing her inability to speak. He knows them, of course; her parents and his are all old-school SHIELD—her parents used to babysit him when his were away, and vice versa. "Edmund and Adora Simmons, two of SHIELD's finest."

"HYDRA's," Hartley corrects, though not unkindly. "Apparently."

"Oh, no," Skye says. "Jemma…"

Jemma is vaguely aware of Skye's arm wrapping around her shoulders, but she can't return the embrace. She can't even thank her for it—and she does appreciate it, that Skye's first impulse is to offer comfort, rather than suspicion.

(Suspicion that would be well-deserved. First her fiancé and now her parents—who could blame the others if they assumed that Jemma must be HYDRA, as well? The family that murders together stays together, or something of that sort.)

All of her attention is fixed on the screen. Her father is speaking to a few of the HYDRA foot soldiers, looking irritated, but her mother has made a beeline for Santoro.

Sneezy is close enough to pick up her words.

"Mr. Santoro," she says, and she's clearly displeased. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I—I'm sorry, Commander Simmons," Santoro stammers. "They were—they were just here! They were all ready to go into the building when I left to call in, but I came back and they were gone. Something—they must have—maybe they were called back to their base?"

"Or _maybe_," her mother says, voice pleasant in a way that makes Santoro pale further. "You did something to scare them away." She advances on Santoro, who quickly retreats. "Perhaps you were not convincing when you made your excuses. Perhaps you are not _suited_ for serving HYDRA."

He looks utterly terrified, and for good reason. Jemma's mother only speaks like that—deliberately avoiding contractions, accent crisp, tone light—when she's truly furious.

"No," he squeaks (there's really no other way to describe it). "No, I didn't—this isn't my fault! I can—I can do better, I can—"

"Do you think," her mother interrupts, tone still very pleasant, "That I care for your excuses? Do you think that there is a _single thing_ you can say which will mitigate the fact that your incompetence has cost us the best opportunity we had for retrieving our daughter?"

Jemma feels the words like a physical blow; she jolts in her seat, and Skye holds her tighter.

"She was _just here_," Santoro says urgently. "Maybe they're coming back! Maybe the Director called them or—or—"

"Enough," her mother says, dropping the pleasant tone in favor of a disdainful one. "Edmund?"

Jemma's father walks over to her, three HYDRA agents trailing him like a protective detail.

"Yes, Addie?"

"I believe your scientists put in a request for more test subjects this morning," her mother says, and gestures pointedly to Santoro. "I've one for you."

"You're too kind, darling," her father says, as two of the HYDRA agents seize a struggling Santoro. He's dragged towards one of the SUVs, fighting all the way, and Jemma's stomach twists at how little mind her parents pay his pleas. "And Jemma?"

"Long gone, it appears," her mother sighs. "It seems we'll have to arrange a meeting, after all."

Her father frowns. "We agreed the risks were too high. We can't bring a team with us to _tea_, Addie."

"It's not ideal," her mother agrees. "But unless you want to leave our daughter in SHIELD's hands…"

"Certainly not," he scowls. "We can't trust her life to that fool Coulson. He'll get her killed within the year."

"I told you we should have kept her from joining SHIELD," her mother says, lips pursed.

"She wouldn't have been happy working for Tempest, and you know it," her father dismisses. "SHIELD offered much better puzzles."

"Puzzles," her mother echoes flatly. "Jemma is working for the enemy, undoubtedly being endangered on a regular basis, and all you have to say for yourself is that SHIELD offered better _puzzles_?"

"You wouldn't understand, Addie," her father says, and smiles in response to her mother's unimpressed look. "Any better than I understand your odd obsession with firearms."

He straightens his glasses absently, and for some reason, the familiar motion tips Jemma over the edge. She scrambles for the door handle, stumbles out of the car, and proceeds to be violently sick in a nearby planter.

She's vaguely aware of the others getting out after her, but doesn't pay them any mind until she's done being sick. Then Skye is helping her sit on the curb and Trip is offering her a bottle of water.

It takes her three tries to unscrew the cap.

"I'm so sorry, Jemma," Skye says, awkwardly, as Jemma rinses her mouth out. "I don't know what to say."

"My parents are HYDRA," she says, carefully—testing the words out. "I really don't think there's anything else _to_ say, Skye."

Skye grimaces and leans closer, pressing her shoulder against Jemma's. It helps, a little, to ground her. "So…what happens next?"

"We return to the Playground," Jemma says, and frowns down at the water bottle she's still holding. "Where, I imagine, Coulson will put me through another—more strenuous—polygraph test."

"What?" Skye asks. "No! Why?"

"Three of the four people I love most in this world have turned out to be HYDRA, Skye," she says. Voicing it hurts more than she expects, and she's quieter when she concludes, "It's only natural that suspicion should fall upon me."

"Hey," Trip says, and crouches in front of her. "It's not your fault. I've known your parents since I was a kid, and I never would've guessed they could be HYDRA."

"That's not really the same thing," she tells him, because it isn't. "But…thank you."

Her eyes fall to her left hand, to the tan line where her engagement ring used to sit, and the sight of it hits her right in the throat.

It can't be a coincidence. The only relationship she's ever had that her parents approved of, and it was with a man whose loyalties her parents—it seems—share. They _must_ have approved because he was HYDRA, rather than SHIELD.

But is that the _only_ thing that isn't coincidence? That Jemma should be pursued by a member of HYDRA when her parents are obviously high-ranking members, themselves…

She wonders if he was put up to it—if their relationship was even less real than she's been thinking.

Tears sting at her eyes, and she closes them, trying to compose herself. She's already promised herself never to shed another tear over Gr—over him, and she's not about to break that vow just because things are even worse than she thought.

Crying solves nothing.

"Looks like they're packing up," says Hartley, who's leaning against the SUV with the DWARFs' control tablet in hand. "Clearing out the warehouse, too. Guess the 0-8-4 was in there after all."

_Bait_, Jemma thinks, but doesn't say. _Bait meant to draw me out_—but that's a terrifying thought, because what if it had worked? What if Santoro had been less edgy, or if they'd ignored his strange behavior, and they'd still been there when HYDRA—when her _parents_—arrived?

What would they have done with her?

What would they have done with Skye and Trip and Hartley?

She honestly has no idea. She can't even bring herself to consider the possibilities.

This doesn't seem real. It doesn't seem _possible_. How can it be that her parents are HYDRA? How can her father—her _father_, who helped her plant her first garden, who teared up when she left for university, who dropped by to visit the Academy twice a month, every month, for the entire time she was there—be a traitor? How can her mother—her _mother_, who brushed her hair and sang her to sleep and held _Peggy Carter_ up as the ultimate role model, for goodness' sake—be evil?

How is this _possible_?

x

Upon returning to the Playground, Jemma is put through four separate polygraph tests, each more grueling than the last. Coulson, though somewhat apologetic, is firm in his insistence, and overrules all of Skye's protests.

Jemma doesn't blame him, of course. She would suspect her, too.

Eventually, however, Coulson is satisfied that she truly is innocent, and after the fourth test, Koenig is dismissed.

"I'm sorry, Simmons," Coulson says, pulling up a chair. "But I had to be sure."

"I understand, sir," she tells her hands. The polygraph chair she's in is a mirror of the one at Providence, and the reminder of that awful base is doing nothing to help the sick feeling in her stomach. She can't stand to meet Coulson's unbearably sympathetic eyes. "I…"

"Simmons?"

She swallows and steels herself. "I know you have every reason to suspect me, even after the polygraphs." Left unspoken is the undeniable fact that the traitor in the basement passed a polygraph, too. "I can—I can leave, if you'd like. I'm sure it would make things easier."

"You might be surprised," he muses. "I think Skye's already on the edge of mutiny, just for the tests. I'd hate to see what she'd do if she thought I kicked you out."

Jemma's giggle is a little tearier than she'd like, but at least she's not out and out crying.

"You don't have to leave, Simmons," he says, sobering. "You're a valuable member of our team, and we'd hate to lose you."

He's spoken those words once before, after her jump from the Bus, and hearing them now is oddly painful. She closes her eyes.

"We'll have to take some precautions, of course," he continues. "Both for our safety and yours."

"Of course," she says, and forces herself to look at him. "What sort of precautions did you have in mind?"

"You'll be restricted to the Playground for a while," he says. "And we'll be decreasing your level of access. You'll still be allowed in the labs and the med wing, obviously, but you'll need an escort for the upper levels."

"That certainly sounds fair," she says. She can't meet his eyes any longer; she drops hers to her hands, then deliberately folds them when the tan line on her finger seems to taunt her. "Anything else?"

"This probably goes without saying, but I can't allow you to contact your parents again," he says.

"I…honestly wouldn't want to," she admits. She can't imagine speaking to them—can't imagine confronting them with her new knowledge.

Actually, she can. She can perfectly picture the tone her mother would take, that indulgent scolding she always used to use when one of Jemma's experiments went wrong—_Jemma, dove, what has Mummy said about using Daddy's Bunsen burner without supervision?_—turned against Jemma's choice of allegiance. And her father—she knows the tone _he_ would use, the reasonable one he always pulls out for playing devil's advocate against her theories, but…

What argument would he offer? What _possible_ evidence could he present in favor of HYDRA?

She doesn't want to know.

Anyway, the fact that she can perfectly picture confronting her parents over this is _exactly_ why she doesn't want to. Simply imagining it is horrible enough; she doesn't want to really _hear_ it—to have the sound of such familiar, beloved voices espousing HYDRA's doctrine ringing in her ears.

"Good," Coulson says, drawing her attention back. "And I'm gonna need your phone."

She pulls it out of her pocket and hands it over wordlessly. She doesn't know whether he intends to have Skye attempt to trace her parents' calls or whether he simply doesn't trust her to keep her word, but she doesn't truly care.

After tucking her phone away, Coulson is silent for a long moment.

"Are you gonna be okay, Simmons?" he asks eventually.

Tears sting at her eyes once more, and she has to look away from the gentle expression he's wearing.

Her parents are HYDRA and, if the conversation the DWARFs captured is any indication, have some manner of plan involving convincing her to join them. Her (former) fiancé is HYDRA, tried to kill her, and is currently in a cell in the basement. Her best friend has spent the past five days in a coma and shows no signs of waking.

In the course of less than a month, she has lost the four people in the world who mean the most to her _and_ her life's work. All she has left are the tiny, scattered remnants of SHIELD and her team.

And the (completely understandable, but still unwelcome) suspicion of her commanding officer.

"Yes, sir," she says, and takes a deep breath. "I'll be fine."


	2. dear mother, i love you

A/N: First, thanks for all the comments and kudos. They're greatly appreciated.

Second, I'm assuming you're all familiar with the 5+1 format, but just in case you aren't, consider this a gentle reminder that all chapters are **not connected**.

I think that's it. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

* * *

Fitz has barely turned away to fetch the DWARFs when a man appears on the other side of the window and aims a gun at Jemma. She draws in a sharp breath—intending to warn Fitz to run; she's between him and the man (undoubtedly a HYDRA agent) and he might have a chance to escape if he moves quickly—but it catches in her throat at the voice she hears behind her.

"Long time no see."

Jemma's phone slips out of her suddenly nerveless fingers, and the sound it makes when it hits the ground makes her flinch. The HYDRA agent in front of her twitches, then stills.

"Turn around," he orders, motioning with his gun.

She takes a moment to gather her courage, then obeys.

Grant isn't pointing a gun. He isn't even holding one. He's just standing there, looking perfectly casual, smiling at Fitz. As she turns, his eyes flicker to her, and his smile grows wider.

"Santoro," he says. "Get in here."

She hears movement behind her as the HYDRA agent (Santoro, presumably) climbs through the empty frame to join them in the shack, but doesn't dare take her eyes from Grant's. There's a pit of dread in her stomach, and she doesn't know whether it's due to the memory of Skye shaking in her arms after being rescued or just because of the look on his face.

"Sir?" Santoro asks.

"I'd like a moment alone with my fiancée_,_" Grant says. "Escort Fitz to the SUV."

Jemma's "No!"is torn from her throat without conscious thought. _Fitz's_ "No" is accompanied by a lunge at Grant.

He doesn't accomplish anything. Grant has him restrained in two seconds flat. He doesn't even look annoyed by the attempt, just amused.

"Calm down, Fitz," he scolds as Santoro moves forward. "We'll be along in a minute. I just want to catch up."

Fitz's response is succinct and distinctly impolite. Grant grins and hands him off to Santoro.

"Play nice," he warns, as Fitz is dragged, struggling, out of the shack. "We've got plans for him."

"Yes, sir," Santoro agrees.

Jemma wants to do _something_—race after Fitz, tear him away from Santoro, try to take Santoro's gun, _anything_—but Grant's gaze keeps her in place.

"Don't do anything stupid, Jemma," he says, softly. "We're not gonna hurt Fitz unless we absolutely have to."

_Unless you make us, _he means. She swallows and curls her hands into fists as he closes the distance between them.

"You look tired," he says, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. "Not sleeping well?"

Not sleeping at all, really. Between nightmares (both Skye's and her own), unfamiliar beds, and the unending worries of life on the run, she's barely managing an hour a night.

But she's hardly about to tell _him_ that.

"Someone stole my bed," she says evenly, and lifts her chin. "And my closet."

He grins. "And you're here to get them back, is that it?"

"Something like that," she says. "Are you going to give them up?"

He cups her chin in one hand, and while he's not _rough_, precisely, his hold is nowhere near as gentle as it usually would be. (As it _used_ to be.) Jemma's heart gives a particularly painful thump.

"Ask me nicely," he suggests. There's a cruel twist to his smile, and she shoves him away before she can think better of it.

He laughs.

Jemma thinks, _I hate you_.

And she does.

She hates him almost as much as she hates herself—for not seeing _this_, this other person hiding beneath the skin of the man she loved, and for the fact that not all of her _does_ hate him. It's been six days and she hasn't managed to steel herself against him. Her skin doesn't crawl where he touched her, it burns—the same way it always has.

She hates herself because there's a horrifyingly large part of her that _wants_ him, that thinks the stubble he's sporting and the smirk tugging at his lips suit him, that thinks _desire_ is an appropriate reaction to a _traitor_.

It's been six days and she's spent the entire time running on adrenaline and grief. There's been no time to shed her love for him, and it horrifies her that part of her doesn't _want_ to.

"That wasn't very nice," he chides, and she scoffs.

"Neither is kidnapping," she says.

"If you're talking about Skye," he says, "I was just following orders."

Another part of her, of course, would dearly love to punch him in the face.

"And Fitz?" she asks. (The _and me?_ she swallows down. She doesn't know that she wants an answer to _that_ question.)

"Also orders," he confirms, and smirks. "_Different_ orders."

Jemma's mouth goes dry. "Different in what way?"

"Pretty much all of them," he muses. "From the source to the final destination."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll see," he says, and reaches out to tug playfully at her ponytail. "I'd hate to spoil the surprise."

Before she can press further, he indicates the door with a quick jerk of his head.

"The rest of our catching up will have to wait," he says, regretful. "We're on a schedule, here."

She dodges left as he reaches for her arm. "I'm going."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment, simply extends his arm towards the door in a clear _after you_. Her heart is racing as she passes him; she's half expecting him to grab her.

Thankfully, he doesn't.

In fact, he retains a perfectly polite distance all the way to the SUV waiting outside the shack. For all that she's grateful for it, it also leaves her feeling distinctly wrong-footed. She's not used to such tension between them—to _wanting_ distance, let alone _having_ it. Even while in the field—where they maintained a professional demeanor—he always lingered nearby.

She's feeling an odd mix of grateful, despairing, and wistful as she climbs into the SUV's backseat. Mostly, though, she's simply exhausted. She tips her head back against the seat and closes her eyes as he gets in after her. He sits close enough on the bench seat that his thigh presses against hers, but she can't find it in her to move away.

Six days. Six days since she kissed him goodbye on her way to Portland. It hasn't even been a week, and she's loved him for years.

Her heart isn't traitorous for loving him still. It's just tired.

The drive to the Bus is quick and silent. She's not entirely certain that the two HYDRA agents in the front are even _breathing_. She lets herself enjoy the quiet and, guiltily, the warmth of Grant's thigh pressed against hers. It's the last comfort she'll ever take from him, she's sure.

Considering HYDRA's general approach to enemy agents, she thinks, it might just be the last comfort she ever receives, period.

It's a depressing thought.

As they pull to a stop beside the Bus, she sees Santoro waiting at the bottom of the cargo ramp. There's no sign of Fitz.

"Where's Fitz?" she asks.

Grant pats her knee. "In the Cage, probably. I hope you don't think we're dumb enough to leave you two together."

"You're dumb enough to join HYDRA," she mutters, somewhat sullenly. If they're going to be kept separated, there's no hope of escape—neither of them will leave without the other. Which is undoubtedly the point. "So why not?"

He laughs as he gets out of the SUV. For a moment she considers just staying where she is and refusing to move, but it's an absurd plan, of course. Any one of the HYDRA agents in the vicinity—him included—is capable of moving her against her will.

Better to do it on her own and avoid unnecessary contact.

A quick check proves that the child lock on the door next to her is engaged, so—after a deep breath to steel herself—she slides across the seat and climbs out through the door Grant is still holding open. She pointedly ignores his offered hand, but that doesn't deter him; she's no sooner taken a step away from the vehicle than his arm curls around her shoulders.

She can't believe she was actually feeling _wistful_ about the distance between them earlier. Clearly she's sustained some manner of head injury without realizing it at some point.

"I have a confession to make, Jem," he says, steering her up the cargo ramp. He gives a nod to Santoro as they pass him, and he falls into step behind them.

"What sort of confession?" she asks, wary.

"I told you my orders for Fitz have a different source than my orders for Skye," he reminds her.

"Yes," she says, as he stops them in the middle of the cargo bay. The ramp is closing slowly behind them, cutting off even the illusion of a chance of escape. "And?"

He turns her to face him, withdrawing his arm from her shoulders in favor of cupping the back of her neck. Her skin prickles; she's never been so aware of the calluses on his fingers—calluses earned in the course of ending countless lives—or just how delicate the skin beneath the nape of her neck is.

"John isn't the only person I'm working with," he says. "And he's not the one who wanted you caught."

Well. That's ominous.

"Who is, then?" she asks.

He leans in and presses a tender kiss to her forehead, even as his hand slides up to weave through her ponytail, and it distracts her enough that she doesn't see the needle until it's too late.

"Trust me," he says, as the world begins to go dark around her. "You'll have to see it to believe it."

x

When she regains consciousness, she's stretched out on a couch in an unfamiliar sitting room. Her head is pounding. Her coat and shoes are gone.

And she's alone.

She sits up slowly, and the first thing she sees is a large rendering of the HYDRA symbol painted on the wall directly opposite the couch.

"Lovely," she mutters, and sets to exploring.

She's in a flat of some kind. The front door is, not unexpectedly, locked. Off to the left of the sitting room she woke up in is a well-stocked kitchen. There are two doors off the sitting room; one, which she presumes leads to a bedroom, is locked just as firmly as the front door, and the other leads to a bathroom.

The flat is fully furnished. Nothing is bolted down. Were she someone else—someone like Grant—there would be any number of weapons available to her use. As it is, she decides that her best hope (short of taking a steak knife from the kitchen, which seems likely to end poorly) is the lamp next to the couch. It looks suitably heavy; she'll probably be able to knock someone unconscious with it.

Of course, that does leave the question of what to do _next_. If the ugly symbol on the wall is any indication, HYDRA owns the building she's in. Even if she gets past the front door, there's likely to be no end of security between her and the actual exit.

And if by some miracle she _does_ reach the exit, what then? She can't leave without Fitz, but there's no telling where he might be. In the next room, on the next floor, halfway across the country—she has no way of knowing. She doesn't even know how long she's been unconscious.

She makes twelve circuits of the flat, her mind spiraling in increasingly panicked circles, before she hears the front door unlock. She stops in the middle of the kitchen and turns to face it as it opens.

Her half-formed escape plans disappear like smoke.

"Good morning, darling," her mother says. "How are you feeling?"

She shakes her head in wordless denial. This is a nightmare. This _has_ to be a nightmare.

Her mother _cannot_ be HYDRA.

"I see you weren't expecting me," she says. Her tone is gently teasing as she continues, "Have I finally got one over on you? Your father will never believe it."

Her heart is in her throat. "You—you're—"

"HYDRA, yes," her mother confirms. The door swings shut behind her as she enters the room fully, and though Jemma notes the absence of the sound of the lock engaging, she doesn't fool herself into thinking it's anything but deliberate.

The door doesn't _need_ to be locked. There's no possible way she can get past her mother.

Adora Simmons is a Level Nine specialist turned field commander. She hasn't been on the specialist rotation since before Jemma was born, but she's never let her skills slip. Jemma has no more hope of taking her down than she did Grant.

And, everything else aside, she doesn't think she's _capable_ of raising even an improvised weapon against her own mother. Even if her mother _is_ the enemy.

Oh, God. Her mother is the enemy.

Her head spins, and Adora makes a concerned noise.

"Do sit down, Jemma," she says, crossing the kitchen to join her. "You look fit to faint."

Jemma allows herself to be steered to the kitchen table and obligingly takes the chair her mother pulls out for her. She feels hysteria rising in her chest and does her best to tamp it down. Screaming and crying won't fix anything—Providence proved that well enough.

"Dad?" she forces herself to ask.

"He's with us," Adora says, taking the chair next to her. "He asked me to convey his apologies. He would've been here if he could, of course, but he's in the midst of a very important project. He simply can't spare the time."

Jemma breathes carefully, trying to stave off a panic attack. In her through her nose, out through her mouth—the way her father (her _father_) taught her to calm herself down when she was a girl, when she had frequent, awful nightmares, her mind just as active in sleep as it was awake.

"There's no need to look so frightened, dove," her mother chides after a few minutes of this. "You must know you've nothing to fear from us."

"I don't know anything," she says, and she truly doesn't. Her faith in the world around her has been irrevocably shaken. Her parents are HYDRA. What can she trust, if not her parents' fidelity? Is the Periodic Table accurate? Is chemistry a valid science?

Do the laws of physics apply, in a world where her parents are traitors?

Adora laughs. "Oh, darling. Always so dramatic, you are." She sighs. "Still, it's only to be expected, I suppose. Perhaps if Grant had warned you…"

"He said I would have to see it to believe it," she recalls woodenly. He was right; she never would have believed him, had he told her that he was taking orders from her _parents_.

"Well, now you've seen it," Adora says pleasantly. "Is there anything you have to say about it?"

"I won't join HYDRA," she says. It's the first thing to come to mind.

Her mother smiles, indulgent. "I know you won't." She reaches out to smooth some of Jemma's hair and, heartsick, she allows it. "My ethical little dove. Such a puzzling moral streak you have." She shakes her head. "I do wonder where it came from."

She sounds so fond, so—so _normal_, as though they're discussing Jemma's tendency towards taking sugar in her tea, rather than her ethical code. It could be any conversation they've ever had over breakfast…if not for the awful knots in Jemma's stomach and the horrid symbol on the wall, leering down at them.

"What," she inhales shakily, "What are you planning to do with me?"

"Do?" Adora echoes. She has the nerve to sound offended. "Oh, darling, we're not going to _do_ anything. We can't allow you to work for the enemy, of course, but we're not going to force you into working for us."

"You expect me to believe that HYDRA is above such tactics?" Jemma asks.

Her mother laughs. "Certainly not. Coercion is a time-honored tradition in HYDRA; we've rather perfected the art. But _you've_ no need to fear it." Her smile is sharp, and for the first time, Jemma sees a hint of just why so many people in SHIELD feared her mother. "No one will _ever _touch you, Jemma. I won't allow it."

"So, what, then?" she presses. "You didn't go to all the trouble of having Gr—of having me brought here just to tell me you're HYDRA."

"No," Adora agrees. She gives her a searching look, and Jemma knows her stumble over Grant's name has not gone unnoticed. However, it does go unremarked; her mother, mercifully, focuses on the point. "As I said, we can't allow you to work for the enemy. It's simply not _safe_. So, we've a lovely house waiting for you in one of our more…_secure_ compounds. You can wait out this silly little war there in safety and comfort."

Jemma scoffs. She has to, because otherwise she might just cry, and she can't stand the thought of her mother attempting to comfort her.

"So," she says, "You're just going to hold me prisoner? Indefinitely?"

"Think of it as protective custody," Adora suggests mildly. "We can't allow you a lab, of course; I think we both know you would only do something foolish. But it's well stocked with entertainment, and you'll have access to all of your favorite scientific journals." She smiles. "And your father and I will visit as often as we can."

"Mum, please," she says, and her voice cracks on it. "Think about what you're saying. You're going to _lock me up_? I'm your _daughter_, not some—some—"

"Enemy agent?" Adora supplies archly.

Jemma looks away.

"We're not treating you as an enemy, darling," Adora says softly. "Trust me, you don't want to see what we do to our enemies." She takes Jemma's hands in hers and squeezes them until Jemma meets her eyes again. "You never will, if I have any say in it. And, to be frank, I have quite a lot of say."

"Mum—"

"We're only trying to keep you safe, Jemma," Adora says. "As any good parents would. You've chosen the wrong side in this war. Usually I do prefer to allow you to make your own mistakes, but the stakes are simply too high, this time."

"And Dad?" she asks, swallowing around the lump in her throat. "He's agreed to this plan?"

"He has," Adora confirms, and gives her a considering look. "As has Grant."

Jemma flinches and tugs her hands away from her mother's. She frowns.

"What is it, darling?" she asks. "Have the two of you quarreled?"

"Qu—" she gapes at her mother. "He _kidnapped_ me, Mum! And that was _after_ killing a man and kidnapping Skye! To say nothing of the fact that he's the _enemy_."

"So am I," Adora says reasonably. "And so is your father."

Her anger makes her restless; she surges to her feet and paces away from the table. Adora turns to watch her, but remains seated.

Jemma is overwhelmed. Her fiancé, her mother, and her father—people she's never doubted, people it has never even _occurred_ to her to doubt—have all turned out to be HYDRA. She's been drugged and kidnapped and separated from Fitz. She's furious and heartbroken and a million other things, besides.

She doesn't know that she has the words to explain to her mother why Grant's betrayal hurts so much worse. She doesn't know that she has any words _left_.

"He was only doing as he was told," Adora says, eventually. "I ordered him to bring you here at the first opportunity. If you're angry at anyone for the kidnapping, darling, it should be me."

"I _am_ angry at you," Jemma says, whirling to scowl at her. "But Grant, he—I just—"

"He's still the man you fell in love with," Adora begins, and Jemma has to laugh, because otherwise she would _certainly_ cry.

"No, he's not," she disagrees. Her anger deserts her abruptly, and she drops down to sit on the couch. She's just…exhausted. "He's an entirely different person, Mum. At least you're still—_you_." Holding her hands and calling her _darling_ and using that indulgent _you're too smart for your own good_ tone, just like always. "He's…"

She thinks of the airfield and the Bus—the smirk on his face, the difference in the way he touched her, his easy cruelty where she would've expected awkward sweetness—and tears burn at the back of her throat.

She swallows. "He's not."

Her mother sighs and leaves the table to join her on the couch. She looks so at home here, in this elegant flat, under the leering eyes of the hateful logo on the wall, and Jemma wonders if this is _hers_—if, beyond the other locked door, she would find her parents' clothes in the wardrobe.

It's an oddly painful thought.

"It's true that Grant's interactions with you have been…unfortunately colored," Adora says delicately, "By the cover he had already established before meeting you. But he didn't have a choice in that, dove."

"The man I fell in love with wasn't real," she says, just to hear the words. She _needs_ to hear them, to _accept_ them. She can't keep clinging to the memory of a man who never existed. The moment of weakness in the SUV, though—she feels—excusable, _must_ be her last.

"No," Adora agrees. "But, frankly, I _prefer_ the real him. Perhaps you will, too, once you give him a chance. He's much more interesting, I've always thought."

"He wasn't real," she reiterates. It hurts just as much as the first time, and the question she must now ask hurts even more. "Was our relationship?"

Adora frowns. "What do you mean, darling?"

"Our relationship," she repeats. "Was _any_ part of it genuine? Or did you order him to date me, as well?"

"Of course not," her mother says, sounding honestly offended. "I would never do that to you, darling. Why ever would you think so?"

"The real him," she quotes, studying her hands. "How would you know what he's really like?"

"Oh, is that all?" Adora laughs. "No, darling, he wasn't under orders. He approached us—your father and I—shortly after the two of you started dating. To explain himself."

"Explain himself?"

"He knew enough to fear us," she says, with a decidedly chilling smile. "And he didn't want us to get the wrong impression regarding his intentions. So he searched us out and promised he was genuine—and that he wouldn't hurt you. We were skeptical at first, of course, but he's proved himself quite admirably in the years since."

Jemma thinks of the past six days, of Providence, of the look on his face when she turned to face him at the airfield, and says nothing. She aches with some combination of despair and fury.

"Wouldn't you say?" her mother adds.

"He _wasn't real_," she stresses. "It doesn't matter how things _were_ between us. I loved a _cover_."

"Give him a chance," Adora suggests. "The real Grant loves you, Jemma. I'm sure, given time, you can love him, too."

Anger wins out.

"I am _not_ going to give him a chance," she says, sharply. "I never want to see him again."

"He's already requested permission to visit you in your new home," Adora says, frowning. "I'm afraid you haven't much of a choice."

"You're afr—" Jemma scoffs. "Tell him _no_, Mum. Problem solved."

"Jemma, Grant is one of our best. And the only recompense he's requested for his _excellent_ work is access to you. Of course we can't deny him."

Jemma feels sick. Suddenly, she can't even _look_ at her mother. "So, you're just going to—to _give_ me to him? As a _reward_?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Adora says, suddenly stern. "He's not going to hurt you, Jemma. I won't allow it." She softens, taking Jemma's hands in hers once more. "I just want you to be happy, darling. And Grant has always made you so happy."

"Mum," she says. She keeps her eyes on the HYDRA logo painted on the wall, hoping to draw strength from how much she _hates_ it. "Mum, you have to know I won't be happy as a prisoner. All the—the _books_ and visitors in the world won't make up for a lack of freedom."

She's not even going to _address_ the ridiculous notion that Grant might be capable of making her happy any longer. She doesn't want to think about him at all. (Doesn't want to think of the tiny, horrid part of her which is _pleased_ to hear that he still wants her.)

Six days and she hasn't been able to let go of him. She wonders how long it will take to let go of her parents.

"It will take some time to adjust, I'm sure," Adora says pleasantly. "But, given time, I think you'll come to accept it. It could even be nice, don't you think? A little relaxation after all the danger you've been in, these last few months."

Jemma turns to stare at her, incredulous. How, she wonders distantly, has she managed to go this long without realizing that her mother is _insane_?

"Everything will be fine, darling," Adora says, and stands. "You'll see."

She heads for the door, and Jemma surges to her feet, panic overtaking her.

"Mum!" she says, chasing after her. "Mum, you can't do this to me. You can't—I'm your _daughter_! You can't just _lock me up_."

"The fact that you're my daughter is _precisely_ why I must lock you up," her mother says, stopping at the door. She pats Jemma's cheek fondly. "It's the only thing saving you from the treatment your friend Leo is undergoing."

The bottom drops out of Jemma's stomach. Her vision wavers, and for a moment, she's afraid she might faint.

"What are you doing to Fitz?" she asks. Her voice is just as shaky as she feels.

"Just a minor attitude adjustment," Adora says blithely. Her smile, however, is once again chilling.

"Attitude—?"

"We've perfected the art of brainwashing, as well," Adora expands. "I would never allow _you_ to be programmed, of course, darling, but Leo really is far too brilliant to let waste away under torture. Programming is a much more elegant solution."

"No," Jemma says weakly. "No, Mum, please—"

"I'm afraid it's out of my hands, darling," her mother says. "The scientists are your father's department, of course, and in any case, the programming is already underway." She smiles. "Perhaps we'll allow Leo to visit you as well, once it's complete. Would you like that?"

Jemma can't answer. She swallows convulsively, trying not to be sick. The thought of Fitz being _brainwashed_—of HYDRA erasing and rewriting him, tampering with his beautiful, brilliant mind—is nauseating.

And the thought of it happening at her father's hands is even worse.

"Now, I'm afraid I can't tarry any longer," her mother says regretfully. "I need to get back to work, and _you_ need to be on your way. Your new home is waiting for you." She checks her watch. "It will be a few hours, yet, before the transport is ready. Do try to eat something, hmm? You're looking quite peaky."

She presses a kiss to Jemma's cheek and gently moves her back a few steps. Then she's gone, the door opening and closing so quickly that Jemma doesn't even have time to consider attempting to escape. It locks after her with a loud, ominous _click_, and that, for some reason, is the final straw.

Jemma sinks to the floor, hugs her knees to her chest, and cries.


End file.
